


January 1811

by goldenhart



Category: Hornblower - C. S. Forester
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Period-Typical Ableism, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-05 17:11:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17329100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenhart/pseuds/goldenhart
Summary: A missing scene from Flying Colours. Hornblower cares for Bush in whatever way he can.





	January 1811

Learning to walk again was a humiliating process for Bush. He had anticipated unsteadiness, he had even anticipated weakness, but he had not anticipated his own courage failing him. He had been a strong sailor, a nimble fighter, even an elegant dancer when the circumstance arose. Now he was none of those things, and never would be again. He mourned the loss of his foot, afraid of a future in which he was nothing more than a cripple; he had been at sea since the age of eleven and knew there was no place on a quarterdeck for a one-legged lieutenant. If he was fortunate, he might find work ashore, but a life on land was no life for a man whose blood was tempered with seawater. Worst of all, he knew he was an encumbrance to his captain. Hornblower seemed determined to aid Bush’s recovery in whatever way he could, but there was little he could do beyond helping Bush learn to walk, and it frustrated them both to no end. 

It was after a particularly humiliating day in mid-January when Bush had fallen quite badly during his afternoon’s exercise that Hornblower appeared in Bush’s room, a small bottle of almond oil in his hands.

“I thought it might ease your leg,” Hornblower said, hovering awkwardly by the end of the bed. “You must be bruised and sore. I thought I might help you.”

Bush was bruised and sore, though he would never admit it before his captain. His inability to walk with the leg tormented him; every stumble, every fall reinforced his belief that he was nothing more than a useless cripple. And now here was his captain, doting on him as he might dote on a hunting dog who’d been caught in a fox’s trap. It was mortifying. 

“I can take care of myself, sir,” he said stubbornly. For a brief moment Hornblower’s face was the picture of helpless misery, but the moment passed and he wore the mask of the inscrutable captain again. That brief moment was enough to soften Bush’s resolve, however. He pulled the covers away from his leg, exposing it to Hornblower’s view. It was an awful sight; the skin mottled with bruises and the stump red and raw, but Hornblower’s face remained impassive. 

“Perhaps I could use your help, sir,” said Bush, trying again. “The muscle feels terribly knotted and I cannot seem to ease it. And see, the stump is inflamed, sir. Perhaps that almond oil would be just the thing for it.”

Hornblower sat down on the edge of the bed. “Are you certain?” he asked. 

Bush twitched the stump in reply. “Feel it, sir,” he said. Hornblower nodded and ran a hand over Bush’s thigh. His hand was smooth and cool against Bush’s warm skin — as soft and as pleasant as a woman’s, Bush thought. 

“You’re quite correct,” said Hornblower, massaging the muscle of Bush’s leg thoughtfully. He met Bush’s gaze, uncertainty in his dark eyes. “You must tell me if I cause you pain. That’s an order, Mr Bush.”

“Aye aye, sir,” lied Bush.

“Settle yourself against those pillows then,” Hornblower commanded, and Bush obeyed. He knew he should not feel so comfortable allowing his captain to debase himself so, but he also knew that Hornblower was desperate to help him in some way, and Hornblower’s need won out over his own discomfort every time. He contented himself with rearranging his pillows as Hornblower unstoppered the bottle of oil and spilled some into his palm. 

“You need not tend to me for very long, sir,” Bush said. “Just a few minutes.”

“Nonsense,” said Hornblower, taking Bush’s stump into his hands. “I will see you taken care of, is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“This leg needs tending to,” Hornblower said as he began to knead Bush’s thigh. His hands held surprising strength, and Bush smiled and shut his eyes as the tension began to ebb from his muscles. The air smelled faintly of almonds. “I know you would care for me if our positions were reversed.”

Bush nodded, eyes still shut. “I would not rest until you were well again, sir,” he said. 

“Then I will do the same for you,” Hornblower said quietly, his hands going still. Bush opened his eyes, curious at the change that had taken place. Hornblower held Bush’s stump in his hands, looking at it as if seeing it for the first time. For half a second Bush wondered absurdly if Hornblower might kiss it, and he was almost relieved when Hornblower spoke again. “Forgive me for the part I played in this,” he said.

“There is nothing to forgive, sir,” Bush said, profoundly embarrassed both by Hornblower’s apology and the sentimentality that had crept into their conversation. He cleared his throat. “You are as perfect a captain as any first officer could ask for, sir.”

Hornblower looked away, an uneasy look on his face. “You are as perfect a first officer as any captain could ask for,” he said, and Bush’s heart broke in two. 

“Was, sir,” he corrected. “I was your first officer. I will not be again, not like this. I’m sorry, sir.”

Hornblower grasped Bush by the shoulder. “You’re still my first lieutenant until we reach England,” he said, his smile tight and forced. “I will not accept anything less than your best, is that clear, Mr Bush?” 

“Of course, sir,” Bush said.

“As for the rest of it-” Hornblower’s grip on Bush’s shoulder tightened. The thought of the court-martial he would face in England undoubtedly weighed on him, as it weighed on Bush. “We will come through this, no matter what.”

“Of course we will, sir. It’ll all be all right in the end,” said Bush. Hornblower nodded and took Bush’s stump back into his hands. It was an easy fiction, Bush thought as he closed his eyes, surrendering his leg to Hornblower’s touch — easy to say and easier to hear because it was not entirely false. Hornblower would be all right in the end; Bush would see to it. And in the end, that was all that mattered.

**Author's Note:**

> Completely self indulgent nonsense, as evidenced from Hornblower apologising to Bush and being kind to him. I haven’t written any fic in five years and I’m certain this could be a lot better, but I’m afraid writing is a lot like making bread and I don’t want to over-knead the story.
> 
> Sweet almond oil was known in the early 19th century as something that would relieve tension and rigidity of body parts, at least according to the Edinburgh Pharmacopoeia published in 1805, and was something that would likely have been available in the house of a 19th century French nobleman. It’s a completely unnecessary detail, but I like minutiae.


End file.
